


Romancing the Wench

by bergamot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Heroes & Heroines, Minor Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quests, Romance, Treasure Hunting, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamot/pseuds/bergamot
Summary: Brienne Tarth lives a modest life in King’s Landing as a bestselling romance novelist. But when her editor’s eldest daughter is taken hostage in a foreign land, it’s up to Brienne to save her. Suddenly, Brienne’s fantastical stories don’t seem so fantastic anymore as she’s forced to cope with dangerous wilds, a dashing would-be-hero, and a smooth talker who has something to hide. Will she rescue the girl and find love along the way?Only fans of Kathleen Turner can say...





	1. Happily Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> Throws this at the fandom. Runs away screaming. Sorry, not sorry!

_He was coming for her. Rose scrabbled up the river bank, her skirts hiked up around her pale thighs. Her feet were bare, and small rocks and twigs ground into her heels. She didn’t care. She had to make it to the tower to light the signal fire. If she didn’t…_

_Rose let out a frustrated cry as her dress caught on roots and shrubs as she ran. She refused to think of what might happen if she didn’t make it to the tower in time. Renly was depending on her; he needed her to survive! Her heart gave an awful lurch. She needed Renly, too, in all the places that ached for him—her heart, her mind, and her body._

_The forest trees grew thinner the farther she ran, and Rose suddenly sighed with relief. There, between two tall birch trees, stood the tower. It was as big and imposing as she remembered it, though it had aged over the years. Its stone face crumbled around the doorway and the wind had eaten along the ramparts at the top. Rose stripped vines from the heavy wooden door and shoved it open, ramming her shoulder against the rotten wood until it heaved inward._

_The tower was dark and dusty inside. Shafts of light dropped down from holes in the ceiling. Rose took a tentative step inside, wondering how long she had left. Suddenly, there was great racket as dust and debris fell from the ceiling. Rose shrieked and covered her head with her hands. A cacophony of small bodies hurtled through the air above her, flapping their wings until the air was thick with feathers and motes._

_Rose gasped and clutched at her chest. Birds. It was only birds._

_Without another thought for them, Rose turned and dashed up the rickety tower stairs, praying to the old gods and the new that they would hold her. She scrambled to the top, the cold sea air hitting her in the face and knocking her breath away. How would she keep a fire lit in this wind?_

_She ran to the ramparts and leaned over the edge. The ground was so far down; she was so high up. No further than a stone’s throw, the earth dropped away at the edge of the black cliffs. The sea crashed against the rocks far below. She followed the frothy line of waves toward the beach, and her breath caught. A ship was already anchored off shore!_

_Rose’s heart leapt. It was Renly! She could see his house sigil on the ship’s snapping sails—a proud Baratheon stag, golden on a field of black. He had come for her!_

_Rose turned to hurry back down the stairs—there was no need for a fire if he already made it safe to shore—but a figure suddenly blocked her path._

_Robert, Renly’s debauched older brother, was back from the grave._

_The man stunk of wine, and he leered across the roof at her. There was no sign of the blade Rose had stuck in his side back in Summerhall, the sticky blood from that wound replaced with a velvet doublet stretched tight around his bulk. Robert had tracked her across the entirety of the Stormlands with his evil men. Now his eyes raked up her legs and settled on her bare thigh exposed between the gashes in her skirt. He licked his lips and moved toward her._

_“So close, my little flower, but not close enough.”_

_He pulled a dagger from beneath his cloak and lunged at her. Rose screamed and ran to the other side of the roof. If she could only find a weapon! She dodged Robert as he grabbed for her, his hand closing on air. He grunted with exertion, his face marbled with sweat and lust._

_Rose nearly tripped over a long, thin piece of iron, rusted from the salty air. She picked it up and jumped away from Robert. The iron was a long rod with a spike on one end; perhaps it had held a flying standard once or the head of a distant Baratheon enemy. Either way, Rose didn’t care. She gripped the rod in her hands, rust flaking between her fingertips._

_Robert bore down on her. He licked his lips again. “Just wait until I get a taste of you, little flower,” he wheezed. “I’ll take pleasure in making you really scream.”_

_Rose snarled and thrust the rod at him. Robert jerked away just in time, slashing his dagger before him. They circled on the rooftop, watching each other like cornered animals. If Rose could just make it to the stairwell, perhaps she could escape…_

_Robert lunged again and Rose gritted her teeth. Robert tried to dodge her makeshift weapon, but Rose was too fast. She thought of Renly and jabbed the rod into Robert’s belly with all her strength. The fat man gurgled and cried out. His dagger clattered to the rooftop stones. Blood welled at his wound and drained from his stricken face. Rose tugged at the rod, seeking to free it and stab him again, but it would not come. Robert suddenly smiled a sickly, menacing grimace that twisted his face into pure evil. He grasped his hands on the rod and then, to Rose’s horror, yanked it further into his body._

_The sharp end of the rod erupted from his back in a spray of blood and rent flesh. Rose screamed; so did Robert. But he did not let go. She was frozen, her hands still grasping the rod, as she realized that Robert was pulling her along with it! Drawing her closer towards him, towards his gaping mouth and that awful wound. She thought to let go, but something stopped her. If she did not end him, Robert would find a way to come after her again._

_She_ had _to end this, to save her life and Renly’s. To save her future with him._

_Rose gripped the rod with renewed strength, her face a fearsome snarl. Robert’s eyes widened, spittle flew from his grotesque lips. He shook his head wildly as it dawned on him what she meant to do. Rose howled the cry of her warrior ancestors, the one she’d read about in books in her father’s library, the howl that Renly used to tease her about when they were only children playing beside the keep. The rod twisted under hands. Robert groaned. He was so heavy. His boots dragged along the crumbling roof, his heels catching on the edge of the stones. In the end, that only helped to seal Robert’s fate._

_With a great shove and another guttural howl, Rose pushed Robert over the battlements with all her might, and he went over the edge with a shout, blood flying from his wound only to be whipped away in the fierce sea wind._

_Rose did not stay long enough to peer over the edge; she knew his body would be broken on the rocks below. She snatched Robert’s abandoned dagger in trembling hands and dashed for the door in the roof._

_She was already half-way down the tower stairs when she heard hoof beats pounding against the forest road. Someone new was riding toward her, and Rose decided she would destroy them, too._

_But when she burst from the tower, he was there, waiting for her atop his white steed: Renly had come for her at last!_  

 _He was as beautiful as she remembered, and she stifled a sob as he swung from the shining saddle of his horse and crossed the brief field to meet her. His hair was black as night, his eyes the same tumultuous blue of the ocean. Had his jaw always been so strong, his mouth so fair? Renly strode toward her and scooped her up in his arms. The dagger fell from her hands, her eyes closed at his touch._

_“My love,” his voice was so sweet, “am I too late? Are you a ghost or a dream?”_

_Rose could not answer, for Renly dropped his lips to hers and stole her breath away. He kissed her fiercely, without restraint, without thought for time or space. He was here,_ her _Renly. She stroked her fingers across his perfect brow, over his sharp cheekbones, along the soft nape of his neck. He groaned into her mouth, and she answered him with a moan of her own, so wanton she was almost ashamed._

 _They had been through so much together._ She _had been through so much! Rose was not the girl he’d left all those months ago. She was a woman now, and he was a man, and they would take their time exploring one another. They would take their time discovering their future, too, bringing peace to a land that had, for so many years, known only strife._

_“I love you,” Renly breathed into her hair._

_Rose smiled up at him and swept her arms around his neck. “I love you, too,” she whispered._

_She looked out past the tower and the cliffs, across the sea and all that waited for them there, and then she tucked her head against Renly’s chest and said, “Let’s go home.”_

*

A yowl broke the triumphant silence.

Brienne jerked in her seat. The cursor blinked on the computer screen, hanging on the edge of the final line. Another yowl, and Brienne glared down at her feet.

“Can’t you wait five more minutes?”

Her portly cat, Goodwin, wound around her legs and gazed up at her. He yowled again, once more, for good measure, and Brienne dropped her head back and sighed. “Fine, you win, Goodwin. You win.”

She pushed her office chair away from the desk and stood, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck. Goodwin pressed against her shins, positively shivering at the prospect of being fed.

The cursor still blinked tantalizingly on the screen in front of her, so she bent quickly at the waist and typed out two more words on the keyboard: _The End_.

She punched the keys to save the document and turned away from the computer before she could change her mind. Her editor Catelyn would be thrilled that it was finished. Brienne didn’t feel quite as confident, but then, she never did. She hated writing, and she loved it. It was like fighting her own personal dragon all the time, and in that moment of striking the last period on the last line, she always felt a little bit like a knight.

Goodwin danced and tripped around her legs as she made her way into the kitchen and picked up his empty dish in one corner. The ceramic bowl rang against the countertop and Goodwin chirruped. She opened a fresh can of cat food—smoked salmon and asparagus, though it looked and smelled like dog sick—and spooned it into the bowl. Goodwin stretched his feet against the lower cupboards and strained for the bowl. The look of pleasure on his face was enough to make Brienne coo.

Yep, she was a sucker.

By the time she made it back to her computer, the afterglow of finishing her latest novel had already worn off. It was a first draft and it still needed a lot of work. They always did. She sat back down at her desk and closed the document. She would email it to Catelyn Stark straightaway, before Brienne had time to second guess herself. It was always easier to let her editor read the first draft without preamble and then go from there.

When the email was sent, Brienne turned off the lights in the second bedroom that served as her office and made her way back to the kitchen. She had a half-drunk bottle of Arbor gold in her fridge that she’d been saving for just such an occasion. She grabbed a glass and went into the living room, setting the wine on the coffee table.

Her apartment was small, but it was perfect for her and Goodwin. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a large living room. Her furniture was old and well-loved, and she sunk into the middle of the couch in a way that spoke of too many nights curled up with a good book. She didn’t care, her single life suited her just fine. It gave her time to write, to focus on love stories that were infinitely more interesting than anything she could find out there on the streets of King’s Landing. And if anyone had experience with disappointing forays in love, it was Brienne.

Goodwin jumped up beside her on the sofa and licked his paws, clearly sated with his smoked salmon dinner-for-one. Brienne filled her wineglass to the brim and raised it in his direction. “To Rose and Renly,” she toasted. “May they live happily ever after.”

Goodwin only blinked at her and returned to licking himself. Brienne rolled her eyes and took a long draught of wine. She spat it out immediately—all over her sofa, her lap, and her cat.

Goodwin hissed and dashed away into her dark bedroom. _So much for that celebration_ , she thought, wiping a hand across her mouth.  

Apparently, wine didn’t keep. 


	2. Phone Call from a Distant Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne receives a mysterious call and a visitor drops by for drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I did not anticipate that long of a gap between chapters. My apologies! Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter, and especially those who commented--your enthusiasm for this story brightened my day/week/month! I, too, have a soft spot for Romancing the Stone, and I can’t wait to see where this fic goes :)
> 
> Happy reading and happy JB Week!

Winterfell Publishing occupied the top seven floors of a twenty-story glass behemoth in downtown King’s Landing. Catelyn’s husband, Ned Stark, had purchased the space for the view looking out over the ruins of the Sept of Baelor—a massive stone church destroyed by wildfire a thousand years ago. It was a tourist destination now, and Brienne never tired of watching miniature crowds mill about the giant blocks of stone, ancient ruins, and archeological exhibits far below. Catelyn’s corner office had a prime view of the site, and Brienne waited happily for her to finish up a conference meeting while standing with her arms crossed, peering down at the lines around the Sept.

She’d printed her manuscript before she left the house that morning and it now sat wrapped and waiting on Catelyn’s desk. Of course, Brienne had already emailed it to Catelyn, but she liked to be thorough and it gave her an excuse to fire the printer up once every few months.

Catelyn’s smooth, confident voice drifted through the door at Brienne’s back. “Well, tell Mr. Reed that I’ll call him back. I’m sure his book on metaphysical ass-somethings—”

“Aspects,” broke in the deeper voice of Catelyn’s assistant, Rory Castle.

“Yes, _aspects_ —is very interesting, but I simply don’t have the time today.”

The office door swung open and Catelyn marched in, Rory following closely in her steps. “Brienne,” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry I’m late! You know how those marketing meetings go.”

“And go,” Brienne smiled, turning to greet her long-time friend and mentor.

Catelyn set a stack of papers and notepads down on her desk and then leaned against it with both hands, fingers splayed. She gave Brienne a harried look and blew a lock of dark auburn hair away from her face. Her blue eyes, framed behind a pair of silver spectacles, flicked to Rory and she said, “If Howland calls again, just tell him I’ll punt his book over to that niche publishing group, Quiet Isle, and that will be the last he’ll hear of it going to print.”

Rory gulped and jerked his head. “Right away,” he said, turning and winking at Brienne. He stopped in the doorway. “Do you have everything you need in here?”

Catelyn nodded absentmindedly, so Brienne answered for them both. “We’re fine, Rory, thank you.”

Catelyn flopped into her leather desk chair and blew at her hair again. Brienne took that as leave to sit down as well, and she pulled out one of the rich upholstered chairs in front of the desk and crossed her ankles.

“If it’s not one thing,” Catelyn sighed, “it’s something else.”

“If it’s not a good time, we can move this meeting back,” Brienne offered. The last thing she to be was a burden.

Catelyn shook her head emphatically. “No, no, I didn’t mean you, Brienne. Of course not! You’re one of my most prolific authors. You’re like a machine.”

Brienne frowned at that, and Catelyn waved a hand. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

Catelyn sighed again, a hefty, weighty thing. “It’s not just work. The kids are off in all directions these days, what with Robb at university in Old town, and Arya still at school in the North. Bran’s obsessed with birds this year, and Rickon runs around like a wild animal. He’s six, I know, and they’re simply monsters at that age, but sometimes—” she paused, “—sometimes I wish Ned were still here.”

Brienne twisted her fingers awkwardly, never good with grief. Her own father had died just a few years ago, her mother when Brienne was only three, and her brother five years after that. She sympathized with the Stark children, who seemed to be untethered balloons in a world full of wind. Catelyn held herself together for the sake of her family and the company she’d helped Ned Stark build.

Brienne could only imagine what kind of pain she dealt with daily. There were constant reminders of Mr. Stark in every hall and room of this building, from his prized collection of rare books that lined the hallways to his darkened office, kept as pristine and shuttered as a mausoleum. Even Rory Castle had served as Ned’s right-hand man before he’d transferred his services over to Catelyn.  

“I’m sorry to burden you, Brienne,” said Catelyn, her eyes sorrowful. “In truth, I miss Sansa, too. She’s been gone on holiday a week now, and I didn’t realize how much I relied on her to manage the household until she’d flown off to Dorne.”

“How is she liking it?”

Brienne was fond of Sansa. The eldest Stark daughter shared her romanticism and love for Old World stories. They’d bonded over the classic romances of ages past and even joked about men—or at least, Sansa joked about men. Brienne nodded along and filed tidbits away for use in her stories. Sansa was younger than Brienne by several years and infinitely better looking. Much to Catelyn’s dismay, Sansa had decided to go on spring break with some of her friends in Dorne. It was just the kind of think a mother might worry about, but Brienne thought it was good for young women to have adventures.

“Oh, she loves it,” Catelyn grumbled. “Having the time of her life, last I heard. But you know how girls are. They don’t want to tell their mothers everything.” Brienne did indeed know that well, if only for her friendship with Sansa. Some of her stories had made Brienne blush just to hear them.

“I’m sure she’s having fun,” Catelyn said, “she hasn’t called in days, after all. Probably busy lying out by the pool and flirting with beautiful Dornish boys.”

“They are something to look at,” Brienne allowed.

She’d written a book set in Dorne just a few years ago and had spent a whole month touring the kingdom. While the men _were_ striking, and the women intimidating, she’d spent most her time touring museums and archeological sites instead of interacting with the locals. The desert held a wealth of information, and her book certainly hadn’t suffered for it. Oberyn Martell cast a dashing figure as a rogue redeemed, sweeping a Dornish princess of her feet in the process; but, by the end, he'd devoted himself to a good woman from a low family. _Sand Snake_ was one of Brienne’s bestsellers.

She considered Catelyn a moment longer, her mentor’s usually bright expression dulled as she stared out the suite of massive windows. “I’m sure Sansa is missing you, too.”

Catelyn gave her a grateful smile. “There’s nothing worse than being parted from your children, Brienne,” she said. Brienne could only nod, awed, as usual, by Catelyn’s ready vulnerability and steely courage. Motherhood wasn’t something Brienne thought of often, but if she did ever have the chance, she hoped Catelyn would be her mentor in that, too.

“Anyway,” Catelyn waved her hands in front of her face, “enough about my problems. What about Rose and Renly?”

Brienne sat up as Catelyn pulled the printed manuscript across the desk. “I read your email, though I admit, I haven’t had a chance until now to look at the final product. But I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

Brienne blushed at the kind words. “Well, it’s still rough around the edges. There are a few places I noted in the email where I think the draft could use some real work. As always, I do appreciate any feedback you have for me.”

Catelyn’s glasses had slipped down on her nose and she was already thumbing through the manuscript. She read a line every few pages, a smile dangling on her lips. “Mmm, you know, this could be just the thing I need to escape from the craziness around here.” 

She slapped her hand down on the front page, and Brienne jumped. “Give me the weekend to get through it—first round, no markups yet, and we’ll talk again on Monday. First thoughts. Yes?”

Brienne nodded eagerly, still amazed that a woman with Catelyn’s prestige and experience was willing to read her work at all. “Of course,” she said, “Monday would be perfect. But if you need more time…”

“Nonsense, Brienne,” said Catelyn seriously. “What I need is a distraction. And I can think of nothing better than to escape into the romantic world of Brienne Tarth’s heart.” 

*

Goodwin was waiting for Brienne when she pushed open the door to her apartment, two stuffed paper bags balancing precariously in her arms. He meowed and tried to trip her up, but Brienne shoved him away with her shoe and slammed the door behind her. She set the bags on the kitchen counter and began to unload groceries, stopping only when Goodwin grew too insistent.

“You’re a pest,” she hissed, but Goodwin only blinked owlishly up at her and nudged his food dish.

She was halfway through unloading the second bag when her cell phone rang. She dug through the pockets of her light canvas jacket to find it. Perhaps it was Catelyn calling to tell her they needed to postpone their meeting after all.

Rory had been surprised to pencil Brienne in for eight o'clock on Monday. “She’s been a little scattered,” he whispered to her as he typed the appointment into Catelyn’s calendar. “Some days she doesn’t even come in until after lunch. But with Mr. Stark gone, who can blame her?” Brienne had only smiled and nodded; Rory Castle was a well-known gossip.

The ringtone erupting from Brienne’s cell was an old ballad about a maid falling in love; wistful and sweet, it never failed to put Brienne in a good mood. Bad news didn’t come with lilting tones like that, she assured herself as she tugged the phone free.

It was a foreign number calling, not Catelyn’s cell or office, and Brienne didn’t recognize the kingdom code. She hit the green button to accept the call. “Hello?” she answered hesitantly.

There was static, then a series of clicks, and then more static. Brienne said ‘hello’ again. She was about to give up when someone on the other end of the line sniffled, hiccupped, and then wailed suddenly. “Brienne?”

Brienne could tell it was a woman, but beyond that the connection was too poor to identify the caller. “Yes, this is Brienne Tarth,” she said loudly into the phone to make sure she could be heard across the line. “Who is this?”

There was more sobbing and muffled voices. It sounded like another person was in the room with the caller—a man perhaps.

“Hello?” Brienne asked again. “Do you need help?”

The woman on the line sniffed. “Brienne,” she choked, her voice shaking across the line. “It’s Sansa Stark.”

Brienne jerked against the counter and stumbled into her living room. She pressed against one of her narrow windows, hoping the connection might improve. Damn the cell service in busy urban areas! She pried the window open with one hand and leaned as far out as she dared; traffic roared on the street below. Sansa’s weeping on the other end of the line grew gradually clearer.

“Sansa!” Brienne exclaimed. “Sansa, it’s Brienne, can you hear me? What’s happened? Are you alright?”

The male voice in the room muttered something inaudible and then there was the distinct slam of a door. Sansa let out another distressed wail, so loud that Brienne had to hold the phone away from her face. She brought it back to her ear as soon as the tinny sobbing resumed.

“Brienne,” Sansa cried, “I’m in so much trouble.” 

*

Brienne was still sitting on her sofa in shock when the door buzzed. She stared at her phone blankly, not sure she’d really heard the door go, too many thoughts flying frantically through her mind. The bell buzzed again, this time in a long, irritated whine. Then her phone started to ring. Margaery Tyrell’s name popped up on the screen. Brienne scrambled to answer.

“Margaery?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Brienne?” Margaery chirped back, her voice relentlessly bright. “Let me in! I’ve brought boxed wine and takeout!”

Brienne moved as if she were swimming through molasses. It seemed to take ages to get to the door, push the intercom, and buzz Margaery up.

Too quickly, there was a knock on the door, and Brienne opened it to let the pretty brunette waltz in. The scent of spicy Dornish takeout followed Margaery into the kitchen, where she set down a large box of Butterwell wine and greeted Goodwin at her feet. When Margaery stood back up, she took one look at Brienne’s dazed face and frowned.

“Oh gods,” she asked, “who died?”

Brienne put a hand over her eyes and took a deep breath. She wasn’t prepared for this. She wasn’t prepared for any of this! She was a novelist not a—not an adventurer. No, _adventurer_ wasn’t the right word. Rescuer. Hero. None of those words fit Brienne. She was plain, not very clever, and her life was far, far too quiet. This wasn't her place. She should call the police. She should call Catelyn. She should...

“I think I need a drink,” she groaned and shuffled back to the living room.

Margaery had been over to Brienne’s apartment countless times. They’d made it a habit to drink too much wine and marathon romantic comedies every Thursday night. Close since college, Margaery was perhaps the only woman Brienne could truly call a best friend. She shared everything with Margaery, from terrible dates to possible book plots to what she’d ordered at that hot new restaurant in Fleabottom for a business dinner.

Margaery didn’t hold back, either. She was the primary resource for Brienne’s promiscuous characters, more descriptive and informational than porn, and definitely more realistic than the romance novels Brienne surrounded herself with. If she ever needed inspiration for a particularly wild escapade, Margaery was the person to turn to.

In fact, Margaery was the type of person one could turn to for advice about pretty much anything. She was invaluable in that way, and Brienne looked up at her with gratitude when she pressed a glass of red wine into her hands and sat on the couch beside her.

“Talk,” Margaery demanded, clinking her wineglass unceremoniously against Brienne’s before taking a sip. She was dressed in a silky white blouse and impossibly chic grey slacks, looking cool and collected and the exact opposite of how Brienne felt.

Brienne took a gulp of wine and let it coat her throat. “Sansa Stark called me. She’s my—my editor’s daughter. She’s in trouble.” 

Margaery frowned. “What kind of trouble? Is it a man? Did she call the police? Does she need a ride? I have my car downstairs.”

“Sansa isn’t in town,” said Brienne, shaking her head slowly. “She’s not even in this kingdom. She’s in—she _was_ in Dorne.”

Margaery sat back and pushed her long brown hair over one shoulder, looking concerned. “And where is she now?”

Brienne took another mouthful of wine and stared at her friend. It had taken her a moment to locate it on a map after hanging up with Sansa, and the name felt wild and strange on her tongue.

“She's in Sothoryos,” she answered, "being held hostage."


End file.
